


Alive

by OkeyDokeyLoki



Series: Good Omens Stuffs [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Dorks in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Psychological Torture, Rescue, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 22:15:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19732846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OkeyDokeyLoki/pseuds/OkeyDokeyLoki
Summary: Hastur isn't quite done with Crowley. So what if he can't be killed? There's plenty of other things he can do to punish Crowley for his crime against the Dark Majesty.





	Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own these sweet-ass kicks, I'm just trying them on. This is AU, I'm pretty darn sure. I haven't read the book, so this is based heavily on the show, and drawing some from books with descriptions of Hell. Warnings are sort of spoilery, but I'll play along. They include: depictions of violence, possibly graphic. I don't usually write violence so a) how'd I do and b) how bad was it? Graphic or no? No other warnings except for gay pining. If you'd be so kind as to click on the next, unconnected one, you'll get gay sex (and some things people might not like. Don't like don't read)! Won't that be nice. Enjoy.
> 
> Next story link here ->  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/19732906  
> Read the warnings, please.
> 
> Normal sex to come.

Before there was Earth, Heaven and Hell still both existed.

Heaven wasn't vibrant, just white and simple, cloudy and majestic. God was easier to hear in the clouds.

Then, without announcing anything, God rose from her cosmic throne and created the Earth.

The angels were fussy about this; God had ALWAYS asked them first, or at least made clear her intentions.

Then she disappeared. Her form wasn't clear to begin with, but even her presence vanished.

Then it was panicked in Heaven. The angels did everything they possibly could to find her (they admittedly didn't do much, but they couldn't exactly look under the rocks. Rocks weren't invented yet), until the panic stopped when Michael pointed excitedly towards the new planet.

It began a blank canvas, gray and devoid. Then as they watched, a tidal wave of blue washed over it, coating it, until it settled.

Then began the green and tan, forming one large continent that would one day be called Pangea.

This planet had no official sentient life, until one angel was called forth by their missing God to alert them that yes, there was actually life.

"Aziraphale."

In white robes, he stepped gingerly forward, folding his hands neatly and nervously.

"Yes, Almighty?"

"I bid you to watch over two humans, Adam and Eve. They live in a garden now, the Garden of Eden. See to it that they don't eat the apple; protect them from Hell's advances."

"As you command." Aziraphale bowed, feeling the jealous stares of his fellow angels tingle on his skin. A sword materialized in his hand, and it ignited. He appraised it uneasily.

He glanced around apologetically. 'I'm terribly sorry. It'd be lovely if she chose us all' he thought towards them uselessly.

His wings unfurled, beautiful and strong. He rose gently, and flew towards the newborn planet, sword in hand.

He alighted on a massive stone wall surrounding the Garden, peering down into it.

Adam and Eve sat by a pool, foreheads resting against one another's.

"I'll teach them to be patient, I'll teach them to have honor and faith..." he trailed off excitedly. Oh, dear, was he supposed to teach them in the first place?

"I'll teach them doubt and want. It's what my lot said to do," a voice said, behind him.

"Crawley?" said Aziraphale bemusedly.

"Got a bit boring, sitting at Alpha Centauri, waiting for instructions," Crawley said, stretching his dark wings and coming to stand beside him. "Nice sword. Very, eh, flame-y."

"Right, well. May the best man win," Aziraphale said, smiling warmly at Crawley.

Crawley winked and melted into a large serpent, black, maroon, and of course, with the slit-pupiled yellow eyes.

Aziraphale watched him go. They'd always been kind to each other in Heaven, before the War.

It almost seemed as if the Pit had always been there. Crawley had been tempted; poor thing, Aziraphale thought. Not that he'd voice the thought.

He leapt from his perch and landed lightly on the ground before the humans. He smiled benevolently at them; they were such precious things.

They stood to meet him, hands seeking and connecting between them, and they gazed at him with such innocent eyes.

"Adam, you're going to need to protect her, I'm afraid."

* * *

Crowley didn't set out to disobey, to fall, but he did both.

The food wasn't great in Heaven, to be fair.

Though he would never voice anything out loud, he wanted things.

Nothing wrong with want, in a demon; it can go hand in hand with greed.

However, Crowley wanted things less... damned than Hell wanted. He wanted to be left alone by his superiors. He wanted to be mischievous, not evil. He also wanted to be friends with his angel, beholden to no one but himself and Aziraphale.

Never evil.

Hastur would latch onto that sentiment, and use it to absolutely ruin his life. So would any other demon with the tendency to suck up to Satan.

Posers.

Crowley had been surprised he'd been called to Earth, until he saw the tree.

The lovely, vibrant, lush apple tree with plump, undoubtedly juicy apples.

But tsk tsk, the Almighty said this was the Tree of Knowledge, so don't touch.

'I'm a bloody demon. I touch what I like' was the majority of the thoughts swirling in Crowley's (back then, Crawley's) mind.

Adam and Eve had felt hollow, unhappy with their complacency. It was easy to convince them to eat an apple.

He slid up the impossibly high wall to form Crowley again, beside the angel. They both watched them take one bite of the apple, and then Adam undid a few stones here and there.

Storm clouds rolled ever forward in the distance as Adam and Eve left Eden secretly, Adam leading bravely with a familiar sword.

"Well, that went down like a lead balloon."

* * *

And then it was done. Adam had undone the bloody Apocalypse with four words.

Agnes had given them a nugget of wisdom for their impending punishment to come.

For either side, traitors received death. It was a known fact.

They both sat, on the park bench together, until together they saw Death, and the angels came for Aziraphale, and the demons roughly for Crowley.

They had thought they were both so bloody smart, sitting on a bench once again, and Crowley had looked over at Aziraphale affectionately, his friend of six thousand years, and asked if he wanted to stay at his place, since the bookshop burned down.

Aziraphale positively beamed.

"Oh, Heaven, don't get too excited," said Crowley, but his smile rather ruined the effect.

He drove them over in his beautiful car, still delightfully intact, and went slightly slower for the angel.

"Dark, but not too dismal. It suits you," Aziraphale noted once they reached it.

Crowley unlocked the doors with a snap and wandered inside to go have a look at his plants, leaving it open for the angel to follow.

He smelt mold, all of a sudden, and rough hands grabbed his arms. "You can't die, so we're just gonna have some fun," Hastur growled. Crowley managed "AZIRA-" before they disappeared.

* * *

Aziraphale had heard the exchange, knew what the demons were going to do, and he didn't know how long they were going to keep him.

He ran towards the sound of the altercation, hoping to get to him before he was gone. "Crowley!" he cried, only to find the room empty.

The first thing the angel did, after numbly standing for a vague amount of time, was realize he needed to calm down. A glow had begun to form around him, crackling threateningly.

It was his Righteous Fury, something all angels could do, but varied in strength from emotion.

And now, the blast radius could potentially kill many innocents.

He helped himself through the stages of grief in an attempt to stop the Fury, looking for him in the closets, even though he was smart enough to know he wouldn't find him there.

He still looked, throwing open every closet, halfheartedly expecting a joke.

He mustn't address his anger yet, lest he unleash it.

So he howled in pain, having only just come back to his demon. Knocked things off of the bookshelves and screamed some more, fingers tugging painfully at his hair.

He screamed himself hoarse.

Guiltily he miracled the objects back in their place, apologized to the house, and opened the door cautiously to Crowley's bedroom.

It was untouched, of course.

The bed was unmade (demons don't fix bloody beds), and hesitantly he ventured toward the closet and the myriad of identical coats, and gingerly gathered one into his hands, holding it up to his face.

It smelled like Crowley. Everyone has their own unique scent, and angels and demons were no exception.

For example, Hastur and Michael did. Hastur had a fetid smell of a special brand of mold, and Michael smelt of oranges and chocolate.

In Crowley's case, he smelled like herbal smoke, slightly spicy. The coat almost made up for the loss.

Aziraphale sat, cross-legged on the floor. He stared blankly at the coat, realizing his vision was blurring. Tears slid down his face and he held the material once more to him.

Time passed without his notice, but slowly an epiphany forced him up and to set aside his grief.

Crowley was still alive, wasn't he? So what if he was in Hell's prison? So what if even Michael nor Metatron would venture that far into Hell? So what if it was only fire and brimstone and other horrible things?

Crowley was his friend, had been for millenia, and they had some things that desperately needed discussed. Aziraphale couldn't let him suffer any longer; he was a bloody angel for God's sake.

* * *

Agnes had imparted some wisdom for the route to Hell; Crowley had seen the index card. Agnes had addressed a separate box to his home before the bench incidents.

'And the Angel shall ride into the Fyre on a silver serpent to save his own.'

Fyre? Silver serpent? His own? Her wisdom was sparce, and mostly confusing.

However, the demon took it to heart. Agnes never failed Anathema or any of the rest of them yet.

* * *

They'd stripped him the moment he got there, and dumped him on the long, winding road to the prison, glowing charred fragments floating in the nonexistent breeze. "Walk," Hastur growled.

Then they disappeared.

Crowley appraised the road. It wasn't really a road, more of a crevice in a ravine, wedged between two slabs of brimstone.

Lava was dangerously close for comfort, and prisoners, whether they be demon or not, were stripped of more than just clothes; they took their powers or motivation.

So Crowley walked, hands tied in front of him, stones cutting into his feet and sparks scorching his skin.

His blood soaked into the path, and seeing as time works differently in Hell, the walk took a week. A week full of helplessness, and fear. They meant to hold onto him forever, fixing him and tearing him apart anew. Each shuffle felt more useless than the last.

When he reached the complex, he collapsed onto his bruised and battered knees, cuts and scrapes littering his thin form. He was grimy and bloody and he looked up at Hastur with intense hatred.

His small ribcage heaved with effort.

"I see you've made it. We'll begin soon."

* * *

Aziraphale did not know how to get into that part of Hell.

He didn't know Agnes mailed Crowley a box, so he was surprised that in his feverish search through old tomes, he missed an ancient box on a pile of papers.

Hurriedly he opened it.

Inside, the first prophecy lay atop a few others, and it caught his eye.

It was the same as Crowley had received, and he was equally confused, until finally he called Anathema.

"Who is this?" she mumbled sleepily.

"Sorry to call so terribly early, but your ancestor sent me a box," Aziraphale blurted.

There was a noise of rumpling sheets and Newt snuffled in his sleep.

"What does the prophecy say?" she intuited correctly.

"'And the Angel shall ride into the Fyre on a silver serpent to save his own'. Can you help me?"

"Describe your situation for me," she ordered.

"They've taken Crowley," he said. "The demons. They took him, and I need a way into the Inferno."

"You mean Hell?" she asked, yawning.

"A specific part. There's a prison in Hell, but that's slightly misleading. It's the size of a country. There's only one not-very-large building, and they force prisoners down an unbelievably long road, before they meet their punishment."

Anathema was quiet. "Is there a lake of sulfur?"

"Um, I think so. Why?" Aziraphale inquired hopefully.

There was a sigh that became muffled through the phone speakers. "It's in one of my books somewhere. The only way down there used to be a boat on the Dead Sea, but as technology has advanced, it's changed places over time.

I don't know what it is now, but it never repeats a. model of transportation. Last time it was a plane, before that a car, before that, a steam train."

"Thank you. Is congratulations in order?"

"Well, it was an accident, but a happy accident. You wouldn't mind babysitting one day, after this rescue mission?"

"I would be honored, dear lady. Again, apologies."

He hung up. Now, off to find where on earth he could get a ride into Hell. 'Silver serpent....' he mused, pacing the floor of Crowley's study (yes, he actually had a study. Aziraphale was surprised).

It was scratching at him, bothering him, just beneath the surface. 'What is silver and looks like a- it's a train! It can't be the same as a steam train because it isn't! It's a modern train!'

He paused. "How in the Heavens do I procure a ticket to Hell?"

* * *

He ended up using the internet. He didn't like to, but these were unique circumstances.

So he sat hunched over a computer in the library, looking for any type of train that seemed out of the ordinary. He was completely out of place and received more than one odd look from the various people.

Usually the criteria meant the transportation was going to an unsavory place. The boat in the Dead Sea, the steamboat to New Orleans, the steam train to Bleeding Kansas, the car to Berlin, the plane to the Middle East, and now a train to where, he didn't know.

It occurred to him that he should look for inconsistencies in times of departure and cross-reference; the steam train had been recorded as departing twice within twenty minutes, from the same station. One destination was Kansas, the other somewhere in Utah.

He sighed deeply, resting his head in his hands. This was going to be a long process, and Crowley needed him now.

* * *

No matter what they did to Crowley, he had a little place in his mind, which could not be breached. Solace.

Aziraphale was always there. In it, they were both angels again, and though Crowley could no longer speak Celestial, he always professed his affection (which could be construed as love) in his past tongue.

He held no animosity against the angel; Aziraphale simply didn't know that Crowley's lot wouldn't be done with him just yet. Crowley's bunch wanted blood and wouldn't stop until they got it.

And though he wasn't present mentally for most of it, he knew they were getting what they wanted. He also knew it would only be a matter of time until they found out he wasn't present for it and it began for real.

In the interim between tortures, he had about twelve hours to himself. Mostly he slept, because if he couldn't have anything else, he would have his dreams.

Sometimes, if his legs had been broken, they had to carry him in.

It always hurt for real then, because he'd resurface when he was moved.

If he stayed awake, it was agony, so he slept.

He was always welcome in his dreams.

If he was a smartass, they always broke bone, but he just couldn't help it.

"I'm still alive!" He'd call after them, or howl it wryly, depending on the pain.

He was sort of worried that he wouldn't survive, in the end. But whenever his tired lungs took breath, he was always grateful.

* * *

Finally, he'd found it.

The strange train had ended up being in Massachusetts, to the section of Boston notorious for bank robberies and murder.

He'd been looking for God knows how long, and though he liked America for its oddities, there were spots of darkness larger than many he'd seen. He was wary of going, but if it was for Crowley, he'd do almost anything.

* * *

The train seemed like a normal train at first, when Aziraphale boarded. What was weird about it was the group of passengers; they were all rather grimy, and were clad in disheveled piles of clothes.

Some had black eyes, others had cloudy gray.

Undoubtedly, though, none wore white and none were human.

Aziraphale reached above himself, and with a wave of his hand, his clothes transformed into black comfy clothing, a black beanie concealed his angelic hair, and he borrowed Crowley's sunglasses.

The train left the perfectly ordinary station, and once it left the station, Aziraphale found himself falling, in a dimly lit hole.

The only light consisted of rocks that glowed red from the heat. The demons spread foul wings and sailed downward.

Aziraphale followed suit quickly, spreading his wings wide to catch the air, and he soared above the demons. So high above them, they couldn't see that his wings were imposing white wings, like a dove's, as opposed to the demons' pitiful bat wings. He couldn't afford to have his cover blown.

The moment the last demon left the dreadful tunnel downwards, Aziraphale dove downward, feathers rippling in the current.

The lower he went, the hotter the air until it became almost unbearable, so dry his lungs felt as though they'd flake on the inside.

He landed on rock lightly, and even through his shoes he could feel the material of his soles soaking in otherworldly heat.

Charred remains floated gently on a nonexistent breeze, and Aziraphale looked up.

In a tunnel of hellish dark, there was a pinprick of light, where he'd come from.

Resolutely he turned back to face a cavernous corridor, carved crudely out of almost impossibly unforgiving stone.

* * *

Crowley had lost time. The only way he knew time had passed became based off of his hair length, and now it was back to its length from the beginning of the new millenium, when he'd handed over the Antichrist.

It hung in his eyes, sweat-soaked and lank and it didn't help much, but he could see less and preferred that to taking it all in.

Slowly, they chipped away at his solace, his one place he had left, the one place where Aziraphale was still there with him, whispering encouragement to him.

In the chamber he'd lay for hours, blood running down his skin in rivulets, skin badly bruised and varying shades of yellow and purple.

Hastur took to whipping, very suddenly.

They tied Crowley to the post, yanking him from his thoughts.

"Seems you've been on vacation for most of this, and that just won't do," Hastur snarled, unhooking it from his belt. "And what makes this better is that I had Beelzebub himself add pure salt to this. Blessed by a priest."

So that's why he was wearing gloves that went up damned near his elbows.

"You just do what floats your little boat, Hastur," rasped Crowley wryly.

Hastur cracked the whip with a flourish, the sound like a thunderclap in an enclosed space, torture in itself. Crowley cowered away from the echo of the walls.

So that's why the earmuffs, then. Hastur looked kind of stupid.

Then it whistled through the air, tails flying, and with a horrible crack it hit Crowley's back, slicing open the skin and salting the wound.

Crowley had tried desperately to seek Aziraphale in his mind, but was yanked out just as he reached for his angel.

The demon Crowley, resident of Earth for six millenia, uttered an ear-piercing cry of agony that was partly shock, and then the lashes didn't stop.

His back arched and he hid his head and neck instinctively, and his arms shook.

Hastur grinned. "Like this, do you?"

Crowley groaned in pain and fear.

"Thought so." Blood soaked his back, which was alight in fire and the awful ache his muscles felt.

Another crack. Crowley screwed his eyes tightly shut against it and made little embarrassing breaths and grunts, gritting his teeth and clenching his bound fists. He tasted blood in his mouth.

He did something he hadn't done in about seven thousand years, give or take a couple of centuries: he prayed.

He prayed to God that he'd just die. Anything had to be better than this; it felt as though Satan himself cut holes in his skin and twisted his dirty fingers inside, widening the wounds.

'Please, just help me. Please' he prayed, when the next set began and he bit the post to try and muffle his caterwaul of agony.

* * *

Aziraphale found the path to the complex after emerging from the tunnel.

No winds blew, but the air was lit with fire and lava, dim with brimstone.

He flew the whole way, wings beating the scorched air, as he surveyed the hellish landscape.

And then, not too far from the dungeon, he caught a wisp of holy desperation; someone was praying.

Aziraphale's brow furrowed as he honed in on it, and he nearly fell out of the air.

'Please, God, I know I disobeyed, but I was never bad. I'm still not' almost escaped his notice, but it wasn't anyone else's voice; it was absolutely the voice of a former angel, fallen, who'd sauntered vaguely downwards and found himself in boiling sulfur.

The Fury he'd buried blazed to the surface, his disguise crumbling away as his true form shone through, and he streaked across the sky, the Fury expanding its glow all the while.

He'd surprised the sentry demons; they rose from their bored positions with angry, confused shouts.

In the vicinity of his Fury they were incinerated, and he flew through the complex, following the sound of his suffering demon.

* * *

Crowley could see his skin growing pale, so pale he could almost see blood rushing through his veins choppily like the last bits of soda through a straw, beneath the layers of grime and filth.

He welcomed the sensation of colors blurring and washing away as he blacked out.

Hastur lifted his chin with the tip of his blade, also covered in salt. "Leaving so soon? But I haven't finished."

Crowley's feeble chest rose and fell minutely, barely breathing.

Each breath whistled.

The moment Hastur let go his head fell limply and bumped against his chest.

Then, on the precipice of death, Crowley saw holy light in the distance.

His heart skipped a beat it desperately needed, and he gasped and clenched his muscles, apologizing to himself fervently.

But then the light exploded into the room, knocking the dungeon door off of its hinge and melting it into a sad puddle.

Hastur turned to meet his death, one from which he could not return.

Aziraphale's Righteous Fury receded before it touched Crowley, the light dissipating into the dry air.

The demon's vision swam as his hands were untied and he was caught when he fell limply.

Lifted into strong, comfortable arms, Crowley clutched at his angel for dear life. "If I've ever done anything to deserve you, I would be very surprised," he rasped quietly.

Aziraphale looked tenderly down at him with such love it burned Crowley more than the salt. He kneaded at the material of Aziraphale's suit with exhausted satisfaction.

"Shall we go to your place?" Underneath it was the plainly worried 'Crowley, please hold on'.

"How about a new bookshop?" Beneath it was the tired plea 'Will you get us home?'.

An angel flew back through the darkest pit in Hell back to the surface, cradling a demon as though he meant the world to him.

'And the Angel shall ride into the Fyre on a silver serpent to save his own.'

And the angel did ride a subway into Hell to retrieve his serpent.


End file.
